


The Rivia-Pankratz-Vengerberg Family Holidays, in Six Tales

by thegayemu



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Airports, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Domestic, Fluff, Found Family, Hanukkah, Holidays, Jewish Character, Jewish Holidays, Judaism, Modern AU, Multi, One Big Happy Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:28:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27961535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegayemu/pseuds/thegayemu
Summary: A six-part, fluffy modern AU series, spanning five years of Geralt, Yennefer, Jaskier, and Ciri's, holiday celebrations.Chapter 3, the Hanukkah chapter, is now up!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 11
Kudos: 25





	1. Christmas 2016, or The One Where Flights are Cancelled

**Author's Note:**

> Christmas 2016, or The One Where Flights are Cancelled. After a string of delayed flights and closed rail lines, Geralt, his new music teacher friend Jaskier, and his on-again/off-again girlfriend Yennefer find themselves trapped on Christmas Eve. Thank god for duty-free stores. 
> 
> This first chapter has alcohol consumption and implied references to sex/nudity.
> 
> [Find me on Tumblr :)](https://brasskier.tumblr.com/)

When Geralt first met Jaskier, checking an ID he was almost certain had to be fake (it wasn't; Jaskier was twenty-four), he slid off his coat to reveal an incredibly garish reindeer-emblazoned tie. At Geralt's judgemental stare, he shrugged and said, "work party."

"Pre-gaming or post-gaming?" Geralt gave him a sympathetic smile.

"Post." He settled onto the barstool, called for a Blue Moon - "and don't forget the orange slice!" - and let out an exhausted sigh before returning his gaze to Geralt. "It's just - it's my first year teaching, and I'm not really used to the political fraternizing, which is hard enough. But they nearly cut the music program before they ended up hiring me, so not everyone's exactly happy to see me there." He scrubbed a hand against his face, noting silently that he needed to shave. "Sorry, didn't mean to chew your ear off." Geralt shrugged again from the doorway. It was a slow, dull night, the usually thriving college-town bar nearly dead over winter break. 

"Not like I don't get paid for it." This elicited a chuckle out of Jaskier, who seemed to relax some. "You teach music?" 

"Yeah." He smiled fondly. "High school. Had every intention of making it big and touring the world, or maybe becoming principal trombone at the Phil. Just wasn't in the cards." 

"I'm not exactly familiar with classroom politics, but I know someone who might have some pointers." He was referring to, as he'd later reveal to Jaskier, his on-again/off-again, city councilwoman girlfriend. 

"I  _ do _ like Christmas, you know," Jaskier's voice came again from the bar, between sips at his beer. "Just not the parties." 

"Humbug." Jaskier giggled again, swiping the foam mustache off his lip with the back of his hand. "Geralt, by the way."

"Jaskier." He sat in contemplative silence for a moment. "What time do you get off?" Geralt's brow furrowed, startled by the question. "It's just - I just - sorry if that was a little forward." He heaved a sigh. "My apartment's decorated. Thought you might like to see it." 

"Hmm." He glanced down at his watch, then up at the bar, empty save for Jaskier and a handful of other patrons. "Ten." Jaskier's face lit up. 

_ Decorated,  _ as it turns out, was an understatement, and Geralt couldn't help but gawk as Jaskier led him through the threshold of his tiny apartment. A beautiful, grand tree stood in the corner of the living room and stretched so tall it nearly scraped the ceiling. Tinsel and garlands adorned the doorways and the arch leading to the kitchen, a buffalo plaid throw was carefully folded on the back of the couch, and a single stocking hung just below the television. Lights snaked around the perimeter of the room, warm white and snowflake-shaped. 

"Do you like it?" Jaskier asked pleadingly, shattering the protracted silence.

"It's cozy," Geralt remarked. It really was. He flopped unceremoniously onto the couch while Jaskier disappeared into his kitchen.

"Jack or moscato?" He called from the archway, holding up a bottle of whiskey in one hand and white wine in the other. "Sorry, I don't have much right now." 

"Jack is fine." He gazed around the room absentmindedly. "On the rocks." Jaskier returned before long, pressing a glass of whiskey into his hand before sipping at his own glass of wine. 

"Wanna watch something? I have Netflix." Geralt, against his better judgement, shrugged and agreed.

Jaskier was back at the bar not even a week later, excitement flashing across his face when he laid eyes on Geralt. To his credit, Geralt was keenly aware that the man had never visited the bar in his life prior to last week, let alone frequented the establishment. He just decided some things were best left unsaid.

Speaking of unsaid, Jaskier was in love - it was obvious from the way he’d follow Geralt around like a lost puppy. Started lingering around the bar every evening, choosing the seat nearest the door every time, inviting Geralt back to his apartment just as frequently. And Geralt would usually accept, watch stupid movies through all hours of the night until his new music teacher friend inevitably passed out, and then silently creep out of the apartment.

It was three days before Christmas, and the chatter of choice for the evening was holiday plans. Jaskier, as it turned out, had a flight to catch back to Jersey. 

"The worst part's taking NJ Transit down to Lettenhove," he groaned, nursing a bay breeze complete with the little paper umbrella. "It's  _ always _ delayed coming out of Newark." Geralt himself had plans back in the mountains of Vermont, mainly dinner and then watching his younger brothers play football with nothing but shorts on in the freezing cold over a few cigars with his old man. 

"I have a layover in Newark," he remarked idly. Yennefer - who had hit it off  _ interestingly _ with Jaskier, to say the least - was heading to New York, and he'd arranged his first flight so they'd be on it together. Which meant it was way earlier than he liked.

"What time? Maybe we'll run into each other." Jaskier looked way too excited by that possibility, leaning back on the bar with all the composure of a middle-schooler. Geralt, despite his best efforts, couldn't help but find it endearing.

"8:15," he grumbled, exasperated just thinking about having to be at the airport at 6am. Jaskier's head perked up.

"Delta?" He asked, grin growing impossibly bigger by the minute. Geralt nodded, and Jaskier was already tearing through his phone to pull up the app. "What gate?" 

"Hold on." He fished his own phone from his pocket with a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure his boss wasn't nearby, and pulled up the screenshot of the boarding pass Yen had sent him. "B4?" Jaskier nearly fell off the barstool.

"Geralt," he squeaked, struggling to right himself. "We're on the same flight." Just as soon as he'd regained his composure he lost it again, doubling over with laughter. 

"So's Yennefer," he added, and Jaskier shrugged.

"Well, then I'll be sure to pack my trombone." Geralt couldn't stop the snicker that escaped him at the sight of Jaskier's shit-eating grin.

For as much as he might wax poetic about the prospect, Jaskier absolutely despised a white Christmas. Which, just as well, is exactly what they got. He was shivering in just the time it took to flee his Uber and shuffle into the waiting warmth of the airport. Security went blessedly quickly, as it tended to at six in the morning - precisely why he settled on such an early flight. (Nevermind the fact his parents practically demanded it of him.) 

He was nursing a venti peppermint mocha latte - light and sweet, with an extra shot of espresso - when Geralt appeared at the edge of the terminal, and he patted his instrument fondly when Yennefer waltzed up behind him. 

"Geralt!" He exclaimed, rising from his seat and wrapping his free arm around him. "Yennefer!" She held a hand up as he moved towards her.

"Not so fast. I'm not sure if I like you yet." His face fell briefly, but he laughed anyway. 

"Can take the girl out of New York but not the New York–" he began to joke, but Yennefer cut him off with a roll of her eyes.

"Save it. I'm from Connecticut." That finally, properly, seemed to shut him up, and he nestled back into his seat with his coffee. She softened a little. "Where are you going?" 

"Me? Just south Jersey," he perked up. Geralt looked like he had something to add, but before he could the gate attendant started boarding calls.

The flight was thankfully brief, if a little turbulent. Geralt spent the journey playing peacekeeper in the middle seat, while Yennefer idly read some news articles she'd saved on her phone, and Jaskier slept soundly against the window, curled around his trombone. 

It was midday when they arrived in Newark. Yennefer was teasing Jaskier for managing to pass out despite the massive cup of caffeine and sugar he'd consumed, Jaskier was trying his best to put together a groggy retort, and Geralt decidedly just wanted them to shut up. At least they were all about to part ways, and he could enjoy his next flight in –  _ shit. _

"Flights to Vermont are cancelled," Jaskier's words, urgent and harried, snapped him out of his thoughts. 

"Fuck," he growled under his breath, eyeing the departure board. Sure enough, in bright red letters, his flight was delayed until further notice, with a little asterisk telling him to download the app to keep up-to-date with any developments. 

"I'd offer to let you join me," Yennefer began with a deep sigh. "But you know how my parents feel about you." Geralt ran a hand down his face. Just his luck, wasn't it. So much for cigars with his old man.

"You can come with me." Jaskier's voice was so uncertain, so  _ small _ , he almost didn't hear it. "My parents haven't had a chance to hate you yet." Geralt groaned.

"Sure. Why not?" He forced a smile across his gruff features, and Jaskier met him with a toothy grin in return.

"Beats this shithole." He glanced around, trying to find his bearings in the busy airport. "Let's grab some lunch before we head out, yeah?" Geralt nodded before turning to Yennefer.

"Joining us?" She shrugged.

"As a wise man once said, 'sure. Why not?'" The wait at McDonald's wasn't terrible, so they shifted eagerly into line, and all but devoured their food the moment it was in their hands. 

"Right, so," Jaskier began between mouthfuls of Big Mac. "Northeastern Corridor down to Trenton, and my parents will pick us up there." He peered over his burger at Yennefer.

"Northeastern Corridor to NY Penn," she replied flatly, the straw of her drink stained with deep burgundy lipstick. They tossed their trash and headed off towards the train terminal, and, at the very least, Geralt would only now have to deal with one of them at a time. Except god, it seemed, was laughing at him that Christmas Eve. 

"Are you kidding me!" He'd never seen Jaskier so worked up - though, granted, he'd only known him for a month. "NJ Transit's down!?" He flung his arms about dramatically before squatting right in the middle of the station, head in his hands. Yennefer quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Is he… Okay?" Geralt shrugged, fitted a palm on Jaskier's shoulder. He gazed up at him, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked. 

"Fine, fine." He pressed his hands against his knees and shifted to his feet. "Now what?"

"We're stuck here," Geralt groaned and heaved a breathy chuckle. "Merry Christmas, huh?"

"Wait…" Yennefer held a finger up, face drawn in thought. "Won't they put you up in a hotel?" Geralt hummed, and ran a finger along the massive, glowing map kiosk, searching for the nearest Delta help center.

They did, in fact, put him up in a hotel, and he did, in fact, agree to let Yennefer and Jaskier tag along. Not before stopping at one of the duty-free shops and snagging as much overpriced liquor as his wallet would allow, of course. Jaskier cast an appraising eye at his haul, shook his head, and wordlessly extracted his trombone from its case. Thank god for all those solos he'd memorized in college.

"What the hell are you–" Yennefer began, but cut herself off when the first dollar bills landed at his feet. "Oh." A few more followed, and then some more, and within a few minutes a crowd had gathered, phones out and pointed at him. He ate up the attention, playing to the crowd for another twenty or so minutes before excusing himself and collecting the cash that had collected at his feet. He bought yet more alcohol, and they departed for the hotel.

It was small and held only the bare essentials - queen bed, TV, bathroom, and the world's smallest fridge. He popped open a bottle of whiskey before he even bothered to kick his shoes off, tilting his head back and taking a deep swig before grabbing the bottle of wine still in the bag and holding it at arm's length for whoever wanted it next. 

"Thank god," Yennefer sighed, yanking it from his hand. It was a deep red that matched her lips. Jaskier dumped his bags in the corner and fished out one of his bottles of vodka. 

"Cheers," he called, raising the bottle to the air, and Geralt and Yennefer held theirs up as well, clinking the three together. "To Christmas!" They dissolved into laughter, shoes discarded randomly across the floor, limbs splayed across the bed, and alcohol sploshing precariously. 

When Geralt cracked his eyes open the next morning, early light was slipping through the blinds, a series of texts from Delta informed him his new flight was set to leave in four hours, and, _well_. Yennefer was naked in his arms, which he supposed wasn't entirely surprising. He shifted up against the headboard, rubbing sleep from his eyes and gently extricating himself from her unconscious grasp, jarred by the rattling of liquor bottles. His feet were about to finally hit the floor when his heart nearly stopped, and he paused urgently. Yennefer wasn't the only one he'd shared the room with…

"G'morning?" Came a breathy yawn, and soft brown hair poked up from the blankets.  _ Fuck.  _ He planted his feet firmly below him and scanned the room for his scattered clothing. "G'ralt?" Brown hair was followed by scrunched eyes, a half-ajar mouth, and a splotch of pink on his cheek where his hand has been pressed against it in his sleep. Geralt cursed under his breath and plucked up his underwear.

"Did we…?" He half-asked, not daring to finish the question. Jaskier -  _ naked, for the love of god,  _ stalked around the bed to Geralt's side and pressed a kiss on his cheek.

"Yes," he said warmly.

"All of us?" Jaskier nodded and hummed, following suit in tracking the remains of the previous day's outfit. "And… did we… did we  _ like  _ it?" Jaskier laughed, soft and breathy.

"We had a great time, Geralt. Relax." He slid his sweater over his head.

"Right." Finally he spotted his pants, and stepped into them unsteadily. "Suppose we should wake her?" Jaskier shrugged.

"Probably." They roused Yennefer, who also seemed to have a better recollection of the night before than Geralt, and was none too surprised. Breakfast was a brief affair in the hotel lobby, all of them downing cup after cup of shitty black coffee and basking in afterglow. Finally, at long last, they bid their goodbyes and parted ways. Geralt could finally get some peace, quiet, and alone time. On the flight to Vermont, he found himself missing the two anyway. 


	2. Christmas 2017, or The One Where Geralt Learns the Meaning of Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A police officer at his door offering him custody of the daughter he'd only ever seen in pictures was the last thing Geralt expected on a random November afternoon. He's certainly not prepared to take in a child, not with his work schedule, or his ratty apartment. Luckily his partners are committed to lending a hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's very brief mention of prior drug use and childhood trauma. I kinda tried to gloss over it though, because I'm trying to keep this series light and fluffy lmao.
> 
> [Find me on Tumblr :)](https://brasskier.tumblr.com/)

Geralt wasn't exactly sure what he expected when he heard the urgent knock at his door that Tuesday afternoon. Perhaps Jaskier had gotten himself into some trouble, or Yen was looking for a drinking partner, or maybe it was a package he'd forgotten ordering.

He certainly wasn't prepared for the police officer lurking on the other side of his front door. He wasn't sure what exactly he might've done to warrant the man's presence, but even so every fiber of his being wanted to jerk back, slam the door closed, and hide. Or push past him and run as far and as fast as his legs would carry him. Instead, he stood there, frozen in the shadow of his own front door like a deer in headlights.

"Can I help you?" He finally forced himself to ask, tentative and awkward. Maybe Jaskier had gotten himself in trouble, after all, or perhaps Yen was, like, running a massive embezzlement scheme he didn't know about, or maybe his damned flighty ex wanted something, or—

"Are you Geralt Rivia, sir?" Right, yeah, the cop standing in front of him he was supposed to be dealing with. He nodded gingerly. "We have some news. May we come in?"

"Uh, yeah, right ahead," he mumbled, stumbling over himself to allow the officer across the threshold. Another one appeared from the squad car parked in his driveway and followed after him. "Can I get you anything?" Is this what you're supposed to do, offer them food and a drink, light the fire while you're at it? 

"No thank you, sir." That was good, because Geralt really didn't have anything but beer and tap water. Jaskier needed to come stay for a few nights again, so his pantry could be filled with extraneous overpriced sparkling water again. The officer tilted his head towards the big, brown Goodwill couch that took up nearly the whole of his living room. He nodded back, shifted into the matching armchair, and waited. 

"Sir, are you aware you have a daughter?" Boy, did he, but only really because her flighty excuse for a mother like to creep back into his life every once in a blue moon, crawl into his DMs and shill for money she swore up and down was to feed a daughter he'd only ever seen in pictures. It'd been over a year since he'd heard from her, over a year since he'd last seen a picture of her.

"Yeah," he settled for rather than detail the complex history of his non-existent relationship with the girl. 

"Were you aware her mother was in prison?" He had to bite back the bitter laugh that threatened to escape him. Go figure she was in jail, with the amount of drugs they used to do. Geralt got clean, nearly seven years ago. She never seemed to care to.

"No." He wasn't sure where this was going yet, which, in hindsight, made him feel pretty stupid. But at the moment all he really cared about was getting the cops out of his living room so he could go about his day. 

"Her maternal grandmother was acting as her guardian." He nodded along, empty-headed, like a bobblehead. "Unfortunately, she just passed away." Oh. How sad. Geralt's still unsure how exactly this involves him, until the officer draws a deep breath. "Would you be interested in taking custody of your daughter?" 

The rest of the day passes in a blur. The officer explains what the process would look like, sets him up for a meeting with child services so he can actually, finally, meet her. Then they leave and he's far too alone in his apartment. First, he texts Yennefer, and then Jaskier, each with the same message:  _ can you come over rn?  _

Jaskier arrives first, door swung open with his fist still raised to knock. Yennefer's there no more than half an hour later. And then Geralt can finally get this off his chest.

"I told you guys I have a daughter, right?" He thought - prayed - he'd mentioned it at some point. Yennefer nodded and Jaskier hummed in affirmation. "Apparently her grandmother was taking care of her. She's dead now, and they want me to take her." Both of his… partners, was that the word? Both Yen and Jaskier gawked at him in varying shades of shock and confusion.

"How old is she?" Jaskier finally asked, the first to break the strained silence. Geralt had to pause and think about that for a moment.

"Seven, I think." He wasn't terribly sure.

"Will you be able to look after her, with your hours?" It was Yennefer's turn to interrogate him.

"I'm not sure. It would be tough, I would—"

"Do you  _ want  _ to?" Jaskier's question, simple as it was, hadn't even crossed his mind. Should be? Could he? But not whether he wanted to.

"Yes," he replied after a moment's thought. 

"Then I'll move in." His statement was firm, resolute. Geralt was going to argue it anyway.

"You don't have to do that, really. We've only known each other for a year." They'd grown quite close in that year, sure, but raising a child together? That was a massive leap forward.

"No, this place is a shithole," Yennefer contended. "Move in with me." Jaskier looked crestfallen, raised a finger and opened his mouth to speak, but she elaborated before he could. "Both of you." That was not an offer he expected from her. Jaskier, sure. Everything he did was fast and loud and intense, of course he'd offer to move in. But Yennefer - sarcastic, reserved Yennefer?

"Are you sure?" He was not about to agree with this. There was no way.

"One hundred percent." He couldn't put the two of them out like that, burden them with the repercussions of his years-old stupid decisions. He was not going to say—

"Alright."  _ Fuck. He said yes.  _

The child was at first a quiet little thing. Their initial meeting passed with very little chatter, in which Geralt spent every last second agonizing over whether he was making the right decision or not. Same with the home visit, which mercifully took place at Yennefer's much nicer house. Jaskier seemed to be able to draw at least a little childlike wonder from her, and she seemed quite set on getting to see him play his trombone.

She officially moved in the week after Thanksgiving, and had she been a week earlier she'd have watched the three adults solemnly declare their thanks for the little girl they would soon share a home with. Her bedroom was done up and well-decorated, and Geralt was still shocked Yen and Jaskier's wildly divergent visions had coalesced into such a seamless design. Jaskier had even gone and bought a massive dollhouse for her. 

She hardly spoke the first day, only responded to questions and never once initiated. Geralt paced the perimeter of the living room in a frenetic loop after he'd put her to bed. Jaskier huddled in the corner of the couch with a mug of hot matcha and valiantly fought off tears. Yennefer responded to stress as she usually did and buried herself in work, aggressively responding to emails from her perch on the opposite end of the couch. Maybe this was a bad idea.

She came home from her third day of school in tears, and Geralt did not know what to do. Jaskier took to the task immediately, stooping before her and holding her at arm's length, asking if she wanted a hug, nudging her along to her room. They disappeared for a while, and Geralt waited impatiently in the kitchen, staring at the stew slowly simmering in the slow cooker. 

"How are you so good at this?" He blurted out when Jaskier shuffled back into the kitchen, dropping into one of the island stools. 

"Good at what?" He ran his hand along the grout of the tile countertop. 

"Dealing with her. Knowing what to do." Jaskier laughed at this, set a hand on his shoulder.

"I dropped 40k to learn how to deal with kids," he assured him. "You'll get there. You're her father." Geralt is acutely aware that he's her father, and he feels staggeringly inadequate. 

It's a lazy Sunday night. Yennefer is holed up in the office, tearing through work emails and going over budgets, and Jaskier is putting the final touches on his lesson plans from his post at the island. Geralt is busy enjoying his weekly routine, Sunday night football and a cold bottle of beer, when Ciri plods in and deposits herself on the couch. 

"My grandma used to watch football," she says so quietly he has to reach for the remote and lower the volume to hear her. 

"Do you know what team she liked?" The girl looked deep in thought for a moment.

"I don't remember, but I know she hates the… the 'Pats'?" She shimmied closer to him as he laughed.

"The Patriots," he corrected, smiling down at her. "We're going to have to fix that." She closed the rest of the gap between them, resting her head on his shoulder and watching the game idly. He'd make a Patriots fan of her yet.

It was December, and that meant Jaskier was busy taking it upon himself to decorate the entire house floor-to-ceiling for Christmas. To his credit, he'd at least asked Yennefer for permission first, and to her credit she'd said yes with only one major caveat: no mistletoe. He can work with that.

More and more decorations have appeared throughout the house between school days, and after a week or so Jaskier is quite pleased with himself and just about finished. There's just one thing left, and he knows exactly who can help.

"Ciri?" He asked softly, rapping on her door before pushing through it. She peered up at him expectantly, book still folded open in her hand. "Have you ever had a Christmas tree?" 

"Yeah. It was small." He took a seat on the edge of her bed, fiddling with one of his rings. 

"Well, ours is definitely not." He got the faintest hint of a smile out of her. "How would you like to run to the store with me and help pick out some decisions for our tree?" 

"I'd like that." The smile widened, teeth showing. 

"Go put your shoes on. I'll grab your coat." He was starting to feel quite chuffed in his little victory.

Ciri had, at it turned out, impeccable taste in Christmas ornaments. Simple, sparkly rose gold as a base. Some accents of mint and navy. A couple fanciful ornaments, just to spice things up. All handpicked by Ciri, of course. When they arrived home, she even lingered around to help him place them on the tree, tiny fingers deftly threading the strings into the hooks.

Yennefer had spent probably the least time with her new surrogate daughter. It's not that she'd been avoiding her; city councilwoman just happened to be a very busy career. But it was a dreary weekday right before winter break, Geralt was at work, Jaskier had some professional development meeting, and Yennefer had her all to herself. She needed to hatch a plan to win her over.

"Dinner?" Yennefer hadn't even heard Ciri plod downstairs, and nearly leapt out of her skin. At least now she had an idea.

"I was thinking we could go out." Or, really,  _ I'm too lazy to cook dinner and I know food is the easiest way to win over a child.  _

"Okay. Where?" Great question.  _ Think, Yennefer.  _

"What do you want?" She was used to overpriced dinners at obscure restaurants spent strategizing with political allies. Perhaps a family restaurant would be a nice change of pace.

"Tacos." Good, she could work with that.

The tacos in question were from a little hole-in-the-wall Peruvian joint Jaskier had introduced them to. The best tacos Yennefer'd had in her whole life, which was  _ high _ praise. 

"Thank you," Ciri said quietly, politely, over her plate. Yennefer beamed.

"Don't mention it." Desert was in order, so they swung by a little ice cream stand on the way home, and Ciri let Yennefer wipe the pink residue off her lip. She was asleep in the back of the car by the time they pulled into the driveway, and Yennefer, feeling very pleased with herself, carried her to bed. 

Christmas was only Geralt's second (just barely) with Jaskier and Yennefer, and their first at an intentional family unit. He really wasn't expecting much, having never done much growing up. But he's awakened to the scent of pancakes (one of the few dishes Jaskier could successfully prepare) and meandered downstairs to find his partners and his daughter sitting around the table like a Rockwell painting. A still-steaming mug of coffee waited for him at the head of the table, and Jaskier quickly busied himself preparing him a plate. 

After chatting idly over breakfast they descended on the living room, where presents were piled high under the tree. 

Yennefer's gift for Ciri was a tablet to help with schoolwork -  _ for use with adult supervision only.  _ Jaskier's was a beat-up second-hand beginner trombone. There were a few more - a mother/daughter necklace set for Yennefer and Ciri, chamomile bath salts for Jaskier, a new razor for Geralt, etc.

There was one gift left, and it was tiny. It bore Jaskier, Yennefer, and Ciri's names, so they let Ciri unwrap it voraciously. It was a Christmas ornament, simple and white ceramic, with text reading  _ our first Christmas _ . It was one of those frame ornaments, obviously meant to memorialize the first Christmas of a newborn. But inside the window was the selfie Jaskier had snapped a few days earlier of the four of them in front of the tree.

"Oh, Geralt," Jaskier squeaked, his voice cracking, hand flinging up to cover his mouth. A few tears welled in his eyes, and Geralt was grateful that he'd known him long enough to learn he was very much a happy crier. "It's gorgeous!" He flung himself into Geralt's broad arms, burying his face against his collar bone.

"He's right, it's beautiful," Yennefer added, snaking one arm around Jaskier's back and hanging the other off Geralt's neck. 

"Thank you, Daddy." Ciri's small words brought his world grinding to a halt, and he couldn't hold back the tears that trickled down his own cheek. He pulled back, smiling at his beautiful little family. Jaskier beamed knowingly, and Yennefer tugged Ciri into the hug. Maybe this was the true meaning of Christmas Jaskier was always going on about. Maybe he was losing it. All he knew for sure was it was the first time she'd called him  _ Dad,  _ and the first time in the past month he started to think things might just be okay after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was a hard one to find inspiration for at times, idk why. 
> 
> Next up is the _much_ anticipated Hanukkah 2018, or The One Where Jaskier Conquers Judaism, a retrospective of Jaskier's year-long crusade to connect Ciri to her heritage. It is very soft and has a lot of stressed dad feels and it's over 4k words.
> 
> As always, [say hi on Tumblr!](https://brasskier.tumblr.com/)


	3. Hanukkah 2018, or The One Where Jaskier Conquers Judaism (A Year in Review)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Jaskier discovers Ciri's birth mother is Jewish, he's determined to help her keep in touch with her heritage. He tries - and oftentimes fails - throughout the year to provide her this connection. Maybe he'll finally get it right for Hanukkah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the highly anticipated Jewish!Ciri chapter. I had a ton of fun writing this, and definitely got a bit carried away. I hope it lives up to everyone's expectations.
> 
> [Find me on Tumblr :)](https://brasskier.com/)

It all began with an offhand comment from Geralt not long before the new year. It was burger night, one of the few nights Geralt was actually around to cook. Most evenings Yennefer prepared dinner, or else they were left with one of the handful of dishes Jaskier could reliably not burn. And when he called into the living room for everyone's cheese preference - cheddar for Jaskier, pepper jack for Yen - Ciri had asked for a slice of American on hers. And Geralt had huffed a laugh, bemusedly muttered,

"That's not kosher." And for whatever reason, the statement attracted Jaskier like a moth to light. Before Geralt knew what was happening he'd flitted into the kitchen, pressed his elbows on the island counter and leaned forward.

"What's not kosher?" It sounded like an innocent enough question, but the shit-eating smirk on Jaskier's face said otherwise.

"Cheeseburgers," Geralt shrugged, returning his attention to the stove. Jaskier raised an eyebrow, dropped his chin into his hands. "Her mother was Jewish. Clearly not _that_ Jewish, though." 

"Huh." And that was the end of the conversation, except the wheels were already spinning in Jaskier's head. He knew very little about Judaism, but he did know it was matrilineal, making Ciri, by birth, a Jew. And, just like that, Jaskier had found his new year's resolution. 

Jaskier was by no means a religious man. He loved his Hallmark holiday Christmas, but that was about the extent of it. He was certainly not a Jew. But how hard could it be, he figured. If he found a way to celebrate Christmas and Easter without really knowing what he was doing, he could surely find a way to give Ciri a slice of her heritage. 

Shabbat seemed like a reasonable place to start. Light some candles on Friday night, take a much-needed break from tech, have some challah. Except, Jaskier was no ordinary parent; he was going to go above and beyond for his lion cub and bake his own challah. 

This was mistake number one. 

The challah caught fire in the oven. He only had a split second to react before that godforsaken fire alarm went blaring, sending Yennefer trudging down the stairs to inspect the situation. Thank god Ciri's school let out later than the high school. He yanked the charred bread from the oven, sustaining a neat little burn on the inside of his wrist that he'd have to find an excuse to explain away later. 

"I'm going to try again," he declared, more to himself than anyone else, his wrist held under the running faucet. Yennefer shook her head, busying herself rummaging through their first-aid kit. 

"You're no cook, Jask." She turned the faucet, dabbed carefully at his arm with a paper towel. "Just go to the store and buy one. Ciri won't know the difference." His face fell, and he rubbed at his jaw with his free hand.

"But I will." She spread a glop of antibiotic ointment over the wound, trying her best not to scratch him with vampire-red nails. 

"You better not burn the house down," was all she had left to add, smoothing the band-aid over his skin.

The second challah (mistake number two), thankfully, did not catch fire. It did, however, refuse to rise, remaining a goopy mess in the bottom of the pan. Yennefer shuffled back through the kitchen again, presumably just to tease him further. A quick glance at the clock informed him he had just enough time for a third try before Ciri came careening in from the bus. Yennefer not-so-subtly recommended he go to the store yet again.

The third challah (mistake number three) did not catch fire. It didn't refuse to rise, either. Instead, it simply exploded, sending half-baked shards of bread splattering all over the interior of their oven. Geralt was going to kill him. Hell, he still didn't have a challah to show for his labors, and Ciri was going to kill him. With a beleaguered sigh, he shuffled on his coat, yanked his keys from their hook in the foyer, and called up to Yennefer that he was running to the store. 

After nearly wrecking his car in a race against the school bus and almost cracking his head open on the counter in a dash to make it to the kitchen, Jaskier finally had a beautiful, golden-brown challah waiting on the table. Well, actually, two challahs. He wasn't sure if he should get the regular one or the kind with raisins and, not wanting to mess up any more than he already had, he bought both just to be safe. 

He wasn't sure the hug Ciri flung herself into when she caught sight of the rolls waiting for her was well-deserved, but he found his voice wavering with the threat of tears anyway as he stumbled through the blessings over the candles. On the bright side, Kiddush was a fantastic excuse for a glass of wine. With a joyful _b'tayavon,_ they tore into the challah. Yen was right; Ciri didn't know the difference.

Purim was early in 2018, on the first of March. This was, admittedly, something he knew very little about. But he did know that there were services for Purim, so he perused Google until he found a nearby synagogue that welcomed non-members. Perhaps it would've been better advised to reach out ahead of time, but Jaskier was never really one to plan in advance. 

This was mistake number four. 

He dug out one of the suits he reserved for parent-teacher conferences, enlisted Yennefer's help in wrestling Ciri into a sparkly yellow dress with more ties and zippers than Jaskier knew what to do with (mistake number five), and loaded her into the car before heading off. The first thing he noticed upon crossing the threshold was the costumes. A Batman sprinted past him, followed by an Optimus Prime, while a Princess Anna shouted after them. He glanced from the costumed children, down to his dolled up lion cub, and then back up. _Fuck._ A sympathetic father wriggled away from his wife and approached him, sticking out a hand for Jaskier to shake.

"You're new, aren't you?" He asked, and Jaskier nodded slowly.

"She, uh… her mom's Jewish," he muttered, tilting his head towards Ciri. She beamed up at the man.

"Papa is learning how to be Jewish for me because Momma celebrates Diwali and Daddy doesn't like holidays," she declared, and Jaskier tightened his grip on her hand. He was humiliated enough as it was; the last thing he needed was to explain his unusual family arrangement to a total stranger. The man quirked an eyebrow at her before returning his attention to Jaskier.

"She's a charmer, isn't she?" He laughed before gesturing towards a redheaded little girl around Ciri's age in a Wonder Woman costume. "That's my little girl, Eliana." Jaskier breathed a sigh of relief.

"This is Ciri." She waved up at them with her free hand. "And I'm Jaskier." 

"David." Jaskier shook his hand again, not really certain whether he'd already done so. "Well, I think it's awfully sweet that you're trying to learn for her. But for future reference, the kids usually wear costumes." Jaskier wanted to ask whether that applied strictly to Purim or services in general, but didn't care to embarrass himself further.

The service itself was not terribly long, which was a blessing, because it was entirely in Hebrew. Ciri, for what it's worth, seemed more entertained than him, enraptured by the opportunity to make as much noise as possible at the antagonist, Haman's, name. On the bright side, they got plenty of hamantaschen afterwards, and Jaskier was very grateful that he hadn't had the thought to try to bake them on his own.

Jaskier didn't know much about Jewish holidays, but he did know that Passover was pretty important, and that it was his opportunity to really test his mettle. It was perfect; he _loved_ to entertain, and what was a Seder but one big dinner party. Valdo Marx, his distressingly put-together PTA arch-nemesis/band director of his biggest rival high school, had extended him an invitation to his massive yearly Seder, because "it's tradition to invite _literally anyone_." Jaskier refused. 

This was mistake number six. 

The occasion started to unravel when he found out his parents couldn't make it, but he pressed on anyway (mistake number seven). He decided to cook for the occasion (mistakes number eight through twelve), but the matzo balls came out soggy and underdone, he cut himself slicing apples for charoset, the brisket ended up overcooked and rubbery, his potato kugel was a bland, tasteless mess, and he even managed to mess up hard-boiled eggs. No matter, he could surely just go to the store. But then Yennefer texted that she'd gotten caught up in City Hall and wouldn't make it back in time, and Geralt had work that night, and two did not a Seder make.

Jaskier tucked his tail between his legs and texted Valdo to belatedly take up his invitation. Along the way he ran in for a bottle of Manischewitz (mistake number thirteen). At least he'd checked the internet to make sure Ciri didn't need to be in costume for this holiday. Valdo leered at the bottle of wine he shoved into his hands as he shuffled through the door with Ciri in tow. Go figure, on the table sat an array of much more expensive (and tasty) wines. 

When it came time to recite the _Ma Nishtana_ , Valdo scanned the room before his gaze settled on Jaskier and Ciri tucked away in the corner.

"Cirilla," he asked, "how old are you?" 

"Seven!" She provided eagerly, and Jaskier decided he needed to have a conversation with her when they got home about how it's sometimes okay to lie, actually. 

"That makes you the youngest child," Valdo continued. "Go for it." Ciri, very clearly, wasn't all too sure what exactly she was supposed to be going for, and Jaskier's heart sank. "The four questions?" Valdo elaborated, as if that would be of any help. At her continued and increasingly distressed silence, Valdo set his sights on Jaskier. "Tell me you didn't forget to teach her the four questions." (Mistake number fourteen.) Jaskier shrunk back in his seat, guilt drawn across his face. He leaned to the side and whispered into Ciri's ear.

"I'll do it with you, okay?" She rubbed at the tears forming in her eyes with a small fist.

"You're not a kid," she argued back.

"Your Dad begs to differ," he laughed, tracing the transliterated text with his finger. "Come on. Let's do it together." She nodded meekly, and let her voice fall under his as they stiltedly recited the four questions.

Valdo was onto him and his abject failure as a parent, and if he hadn't been already, Jaskier was sure of it when Valdo interrupted himself just towards the end of the Seder and gestured to him.

"My dearest Jaskier here is an esteemed colleague of mine." His words dripped with sarcasm, and Jaskier felt very small. "A fellow music educator." He raised his glass as if making a toast. "Jaskier, why don't you treat us to that impeccable voice of yours and lead us in _Dayenu?"_ He tried to escape, he really did.

"My concentration was in trombone, you know. Not choir, like our marvelous host." Oh, but Valdo insists he has a beautiful voice (which he _does_ , thank you very much.) "I haven't gotten to warm up." No matter, Valdo assures him. _Take your time._ "I think I might be coming down with something." Well then he should be in bed, shouldn't he, the poor dear, Valdo interjects. Finally, Valdo's uncanny ability to shoot down every last excuse outpaces his capacity to wrack his brain for them. Thank god for the musical notation printed with both Hebrew and transliteration, and thank god for years of sight-reading practice. He hobbles his way through it, and Ciri buries her head in his side. 

The Seder is not a total bust. For one, if someone had told Jaskier a minimum of four glasses of wine were in order, he would've converted a long time ago. Second, Valdo is actually a good cook ( _damn him_ ), and his matzo balls are round and fluffy. Third, Ciri found the afikomen and all of Jaskier's transgressions were swiftly forgotten. She was asleep in her car seat before he'd even pulled out of Valdo's driveway. He decides to write the evening off as a wash and vows to do better next year.

Rosh Hashanah is the next holiday to roll around that he thinks is significant enough to bother with. And it's simple enough, right? Some challah, apples and honey, a few blessings? He can surely do that. Hell, how could he mess it up? 

He entirely writes off the prospect of baking his own challah and picks up one of those beautiful, braided loaves the day before. Unfortunately, no one at the kosher bakery thought to warn him that Rosh Hashanah challah should be _round,_ so he has to run back to the store and get another one the next morning (mistake number fifteen). 

He cuts himself slicing the apples. _Again._ (Mistake number sixteen.) Perhaps, Geralt warns him, his knife privileges should be revoked. Except, this time, the cut _won't stop bleeding._ Spending Rosh Hashanah in the ER with Yennefer mercilessly teasing him the whole way through had not been part of his plans. Six stitches later, Yen swings by the grocery store and picks up a pack of pre-sliced apples on their way home while Jaskier slips in and out of sleep in the passenger's seat, and prays Geralt hasn't put Ciri to bed yet.

Ciri is wide awake when he sheepishly steps through the front door, curled up with Geralt on the couch and already in her pajamas. He leans over the two, plants a kiss on each of their foreheads. 

"Sorry, princess," he muttered, slumping onto the couch next to her. She smiled, wriggled free from Geralt's arm and pressed against his chest. "So much for Rosh Hashanah."

"It's okay." She tugged at his hand. "Can I see it?" She asked, gesturing towards the bulky bandage wrapped around his left hand. He held it out for her to inspect while Geralt reminded her to be gentle. "Did it hurt?" He couldn't help but laugh.

"It did. Which is why we don't let you use the big knife." And why Jaskier also probably shouldn't be allowed to use it either. 

"Who said Rosh Hashanah had to be cancelled?" Yennefer emerged from the kitchen with a plate full of sliced apples, round challah, and honey, shifting onto the couch next to Geralt. Ciri leapt up, elbowing both Geralt and Jaskier in the process, and devoured the plate eagerly. Maybe it wasn't entirely a bust, after all. Just no more apple slicing moving forward.

Yom Kippur is a big deal. Like, a really big deal, and very serious. Jaskier knows it's not exactly the holiday Ciri is looking forward to, but he _has to_ prove he's serious. It's _very_ important. So, he decides they're going to services.

This was mistake number seventeen.

Step one is waking up at the crack of dawn, dragging himself out of bed, and making an entire pot of coffee before he remembers he's supposed to be fasting (mistake number eighteen) and can't actually drink it. Step two requires digging the suit up again and stopping Yen on her way out the door so she can fix his tie. Step three is to rouse Ciri, singlehandedly deal with the inevitable meltdown that accompanies waking an eight-year-old early on a day off from school (mistake number nineteen), and enviously watch her devour breakfast before the inevitable battle of getting her into a dress. 

The service is _long_. It is boring. It is entirely in Hebrew. And it is certainly not designed with hyperactive elementary schoolers (or their starving, restless parents) in mind. After the third time he thinks it's finally ending, only for the Rabbi to launch back into prayer again, Ciri starts to get especially antsy.

"I need to use the potty," she tells him urgently in that whisper-shout that is a trademark of youth. Fine, he can handle that. He shimmies her through rows of enraptured attendees, waits like a sentinel outside the door to the women's room, and then tiptoes back in. 

"Papa, I'm hungry." Not exactly something to announce to a room full of people who can't eat, but so be it. Another hushed escape, a quick munch on the Goldfish he'd been smart enough to pack, and then their cautious reentry. 

"Papa, I'm bored." There's not exactly much he can do about that, so he shuffled his phone out of his pocket as discretely as possible, makes absolutely certain the volume is off, and passes it off to her. Unfortunately, this is only a temporary solution, and she's squirming in her seat before long. "Papaaa, I'm reeeally bored." 

"Just a little longer, lion cub," he assures her. He should've fled while he still had the chance to do so with dignity and grace, but he's sure it must nearly be done, and they can brave it out (mistake number twenty). This is, apparently, the very worst decision he could make. It is not, in fact, nearly done.

"Papaaa!" She's getting increasingly louder, wriggling around with increasing intensity. That heart-melting, will-bending pout of hers is drawn on her lips. This is decidedly not good. "I wanna go home!" That one was loud enough to turn a few heads, which means it's definitely time to go.

"Okay, okay," he attempts to placate her, "we're going now." But it's too late. The tears are coming. 

"Now!" That one's nearly enough to grind the whole service to a halt. He does the only thing he can think to do: tuck her under his arm, scurry through the aisle, and _run._

He feels dizzy and especially winded by the time they reach the car, and he's not exactly sure why. All he knows is that Ciri needs to _please_ stop crying for a moment so he can catch his breath. It must be a Yom Kippur miracle _(do those exist?)_ when she relents, jerking a hand free and placing it against his cheek.

"Are you okay?" Her voice is so tiny he nearly doesn't hear it.

"I'm fine, kiddo, just gimme a sec." He leans heavily back against the car, Ciri still clung around his chest. The dizziness passes just as quickly as it came on, and he hurries home eagerly, relieved when Ciri dozes in the back seat. 

They cozy up on the couch while Geralt mows the lawn outside, and spend the rest of their day off watching a movie - Ciri's choice, which is Moana, no surprise. He's sick to death of the movie but he sings along with every last song anyway. _Damn that Lin-Manuel Miranda can write a catchy tune._

Jaskier has all but forgotten about the earlier dizzy spell when the front door clicks open and a very sweaty Geralt parades inside, Yennefer, fresh home from work, on his heel. Which is why he really doesn't understand what's happening when he rises to greet them and the whole room tilts with him. He wavers, eyes squeezed shut and hand pressed against his face in a desperate attempt to will his head to stop spinning. It's no use, and before he can even go to sit back down he's careening forwards. 

His eyes fluttered open to a sharp prick on his hand, a high-pitched beep, and a total stranger hovering over him. He startled, fighting to prop himself up in a sitting position, but a firm hand he recognized could only be Geralt's forced him back to the ground. 

"The fuck's going on?" He managed to ask, and his own voice sounded oddly far away. He scanned the room for clues as to what could possibly be happening and settled on Yennefer's face just as she shot him a glare that he knew translated to _watch your language._

"You passed out, Jask." Geralt, somewhere overhead and out of view. "Hit your head good on the coffee table." Well, that would explain the pounding headache.

"And he is…?" He gestured vaguely at the stranger only visible in his peripheral.

"An EMT, sir," the man supplied, shifting back into view and shining a flashlight in his eyes. 

"Ah." He blinked reflexively, wincing at the fingers that firmly held his eye open. "You didn't have to call an ambulance, you know." 

"I didn't." Of course Geralt didn't, the man would probably gladly perform an appendectomy in the back of the bar at which he worked. It had to be Yennefer.

"Wasn't me." He considered for a moment if she could read his mind or if he was accidentally saying everything aloud before shakily remembering that he had a betrayingly expressive face. Well, if it wasn't Geralt, and it wasn't Yennefer…

"They taught us at school to call 911 if there's ever an emergency," Ciri casually explained. He couldn't help but smile. His little lion cub looking out for him, it made him feel warm.

"Alright," the paramedic commandeered his attention, helping shift him upright and propping him against the couch. "You're not diabetic, correct?" He nodded, which was a mistake, because silver stars erupted in his vision. "Your blood pressure is a little on the low side and you're pretty hypoglycemic. When did you last eat?" Oh, yeah. _Fuck_.

"Last night? It's Yom Kippur, I'm fasting…" He felt thoroughly, indescribably humiliated. He tries to be a good dad/surrogate Jew, and this is what he gets. As they say, no good deed goes unpunished.

"Happy new year," the EMT offered earnestly. A bottle was pressed into his hand, and he shakily raised it to his lips and drank without even questioning it. Whatever it was, it was incredibly sweet. "Some fast-acting carbs and a good meal should sort that out, but I'd still recommend you go in, just to rule out a concussion." He sipped some more on the mystery beverage and was fully prepared to politely decline when he felt small arms wrap around his shoulder.

"Fine." The second Jewish holiday in a row spent in the ER, _just what he wanted_. He was going to start racking up frequent flier miles if he kept it up. And all three of them accompanied him, evidence enough that he'd clearly rattled them. At least the doctor was sympathetic, suggesting he eat a bigger meal later at night next year. (Which was giving Jaskier a lot of credit, assuming there would be a next time.) He typed out sub plans on his phone while he waited for the discharge paperwork, knowing full well he wasn't making it to work the next morning. On the bright side, he didn't have a concussion after all.

Hanukkah was his chance to finally get it right. It was Jewish Christmas, right? And he'd always been pretty good at Christmas, so surely he'd nail this one. He dug around a few shops until he found a menorah he was fond of - cast in gold and decorated with music notes and a big treble clef - and proudly set it on the kitchen counter. He even bothered to watch a few YouTube videos of the blessings over the candles, so he'd nail the melody. Finally, he had to buy gifts. Eight of them. For three people. So, twenty-four gifts. He perused the dollar store, the budget section at Target, and every clearance section he came upon until he'd collected every last gift. Even wrapped them in paper adorned with little menorahs and dreidels.

The first night finally rolled along, and he could hardly contain himself. Ciri, too, was bursting with excitement; apparently Hanukkah was the one holiday her mother ever really bothered to celebrate with her. He wedged the first candle in place, carefully lit the shamash candle, and managed to return it to its spot without burning the house down. He led them in the two blessings without so much as a crack in his voice - plus shehecheyanu, which was reserved for the first night only (if reformjudaism.org was to be trusted, which he was sure it was) - and breathed a sigh of relief when even Geralt knew better than to blow out the candles. 

Gift-giving was always one of his favorite aspects of Christmas, so watching his family tear into his tiny presents and enjoying a warm embrace from each was easily his favorite part of the evening. They played a rousing few rounds of dreidel, in which Ciri inevitably won every last piece of gelt. The latkes he'd picked up at the kosher market were delicious, and this time it didn't even take Yennefer to convince him not to try cooking them from scratch. The final piece of the puzzle was the box of jelly donuts he'd hidden away from Geralt all day. 

And yet. Something was wrong, he felt like something had to be missing. It made him uneasy. So he finally did what he probably should've done to begin with; he reached out to a Rabbi.

"Are you looking to convert?" He was not prepared for the first question from the Rabbi - an older fellow named Levi with a gentle smile and kind eyes. 

"I don't think so. I'm not really sure what I'm looking for. Just to give my daughter a connection to her heritage, I guess." He'd been caught up in the personal mission of it all, but that was truly all that mattered. "We've always kind of been the spiritual-not-religious type, Christmas-Easter only. I was hoping there was something like that in Judaism, but there's so much history. It's hard to keep track." Levi nodded sympathetically.

"Judaism is beautiful because we are more than a religion - we are a people." He smiled fondly. "If you ask me, I don't think there's a wrong way to be a Jew."

"Then how do I know I'm doing enough?" That's all he really ever wanted, was to be enough. For Ciri, for Geralt and Yennefer, for his parents, for his students. "Which holidays do I celebrate? Is it okay if I can't bake my own challah? Do I really need to drag her to Yom Kippur services? Should she be Bat Mitzvah'd?"

"You ask a lot of questions, young man," he chuckled, and Jaskier felt his cheeks flush. "Is she happy?" 

"Yes." That was at least an easy question to answer. Every step of the way, as overwhelmed and harried as he was, she was always a constant source of joy (or, at least, most of the time).

"Then there's your answer." There's his answer. Ciri is happy, and that's all that matters. Hanukkah 2018, it seems, was a success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was extra cathartic to write, as someone who's lapsed in and out of Judaism over the years and stumbled my way through figuring out what it means to me to lead an atheist Jewish life. This was pretty much entirely drawn from my childhood in a very loosely conservative synagogue and my reconstructionist adulthood. If there's anything I learned from the light research I did for this, it's the same as the crux of the lesson Jaskier learns; there's no one way to be a Jew. 
> 
> If you're curious and want to learn more about any of the holidays or customs mentioned above, I reccomend checking out the [Reform Judaism website](https://reformjudaism.org/). Reform Judaism is one of the most common denominations in America, and it's generally what you'd consider your average casual Jew, which is what I was going for in this fic.
> 
> Next up is Christmas 2018, or The One Where Roach Comes Home. Everyone is hella stressed, and Jask and Yen decide the best way to solve this is by getting a dog.
> 
> And of course, [come say hi on Tumblr.](https://brasskier.tumblr.com/)


	4. Christmas 2018, or The One Where Roach Comes Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas 2018, or The One Where Roach Comes Home. Everyone is stressed; Jaskier is finally getting a marching program next year, Yennefer’s reelection is up in the air, Geralt is sick of his job, and second grade is surely very stressful. That's why Yennefer and Jaskier hatch a plan to surprise Geralt and Ciri for Christmas this year, find the pluckiest looking mutt at the shelter, and hope to god Geralt doesn't kill them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, some good Yen/Jaskier bonding in this one. They're all disasters lmao.
> 
> [Find me on Tumblr :)](https://brasskier.tumblr.com/)

November of 2018 was  _ stressful  _ in the Rivia-Pankratz-Vengerberg household (they really needed to think of something more clever than that). It all began with election season. Yennefer's seat was up for grabs, and when it comes to such local races being the incumbent is no guarantee. Election night is spent glued to the local news, grasping for any last thread of information between the more high-profile races that evening. They forget to put Ciri to bed - which, really, was supposed to be Geralt's responsibility that night - and she ultimately drifts off in Geralt's arms. Yennefer narrowly clenches a victory, but it's tight. So tight that her opponent contests it. And,  _ god damn this horrendous city _ , the process is excruciatingly drawn-out.

And then, in the middle of the investigation, Jaskier slinks home from work unusually solemn and after some prodding reveals what should've been good news - the arts department chair finally greenlit the marching program he'd long dreamed of. Except, there's some caveats. A hard cap on the budget, a parking lot with chalk lines as their only practice field, and while it would be a paid gig, work done for marching band won't count towards his overtime hours. He knew it was never going to be the band of his wildest dreams right out the gate - "I know they're not gonna be the Bluecoats" - and that he'd be lucky to pull in twenty kids the first year. But between the limitations placed upon him and the dawning realization of just how much extra paperwork and planning he was taking on, he had to curb his enthusiasm. And he was overwhelmed.

Geralt was broodier than usual. In part because the entire energy in the house had died down a little, with Yennefer barricaded in the office on strategy calls at all hours and Jaskier working through his long list of tasks to prepare for the next marching season. A tiny bit because he was just  _ like that  _ sometimes. But he was feeling restless in his career and inadequate as a provider. Yennefer’s continual refusal to take rent money from him, especially, was wearing at his confidence. Just about everyone and their mother had recommended he go through the academy, become a cop. But Geralt had  _ feelings  _ about cops, thanks in no small part to Jaskier and his incessant ramblings about class solidarity and late-stage capitalism or whatever his new favorite buzzword of the week was, and also the sheer fact that he’d see a tiny piece of himself in every drunkard, shoplifter, or dropout he ever picked up. So here he was. Being a bouncer wasn’t cutting it, and he very much did not care to do the one thing everyone else seemed to insist he’d be good at. He needed a change of pace; something needed to give, or he was going to lose it.

And Ciri. Dear, sweet little Ciri. Second grade was surely stressful. Watching all three of your parents mope around aimlessly all day was surely stressful. 

If you asked, Yennefer would tell you it was her idea, and Jaskier would strongly insist it was, in fact, his. Either way, they hatched a plan. It all started with one of those heart-wrenching ASPCA commercials with that damned Sarah McLachlan song. It was late, Ciri was in bed, and Geralt was at work. Either way, drunk on exhaustion, they turned to each other and locked eyes that shone with mutual understanding. They knew exactly how to fix this. They needed a dog.

The details came secondarily. Jaskier, never one to think more than a few seconds ahead, insisted they should just wait until Christmas and wing it. Yennefer, who during the busier periods of her life had planned her days down to the half-hour, contended that waiting and flying by the seat of their pants was perhaps not the best idea. Yennefer, whose career hinged on her talent for arguing, won that battle.

They stopped by the shelter the day after Thanksgiving under the guise of Black Friday shopping. It  _ had  _ to be a shelter dog, no if’s, and’s, or but’s about it. A pretty golden retriever would paint a pretty stark contrast against their eclectic little family. In fact, Jaskier wanted the scrappiest looking mutt they could find. Which ended up being this massive, bumbling oaf of a dog, all slobbery tongue and big aand wiry brown fur with the occasional odd splotch of white. When asked for the best approximation of her genetic makeup, the poor girl working the shelter had rattled off at least a dozen different potential breeds. She’d had several homes over her approximately four years of life, due moreso to a string of bad luck than any tangible behavioral issues. Most importantly, of course, was the designation of “child-friendly”.

“She’s the one,” Jaskier whispered under his breath as they exited the shelter, lips pulled in a broad grin.

“Don’t you want to check anywhere else?” Yennefer, always one to calculate and overthink, pressed.

“No; I can feel it. It  _ has  _ to be her.” He seemed pretty set on that dog, his arms folded petulantly across his chest as he settled into the passenger’s seat. 

“So glad I made a spreadsheet of all the shelters,” she quipped back, because  _ of course she had.  _ Jaskier just rolled his eyes, staring blankly at the scenery that rolled past the window. 

That was it then. They had their dog. The problem was, Jaskier making up his mind so quickly threw a bit of a wrench into leaving the surprise for Christmas. They had two options now: wait and risk the dog getting adopted and Jaskier getting his heart crushed, or adopt her earlier and make it an early Christmas gift. Jaskier and Yennefer butted heads on this detail, like all the others. Jaskier won this one, mostly by sobbing into her shoulder until she relented. No wonder Geralt would fondly refer to them as his pathos and logos, respectively. 

Jaskier was ready to just show up at the shelter and take her, until Yen patiently reminded him that it would probably be better advised if they actually procured everything they needed to care for her first. She made another spreadsheet. The actual shopping trip was exhausting, mostly because Jaskier spent half the time deflecting each decision with,

“Wouldn’t it be best to let Ciri pick?” They were standing before a colorful display of collars and leashes, and while she’d backed him into a decision every other time he brought it up, she finally agreed.

“I suppose you’re right.” She paused, deep in thought. They were still going to need a leash and collar before they got the dog. “Get a set for Geralt.” He reached immediately for a black faux-leather collar and matching nylon leash.

“It’ll match every article of clothing he owns,” he explained with a smirk. She chuckled; he wasn’t wrong.

Shopping finished and the trunk of Yennefer's Volvo stuffed with every last item they could possibly fathom needing, there was only one thing left to do - get the dog.

There was a slight problem with that plan: for all her preparation and research, Yennefer had entirely forgotten to look up the adoption requirements, and neither were prepared for a mandatory home visit. The problem was not, so much, that their home was unfit for a dog; rather, it was figuring out how they were going to slip this past both Geralt  _ and _ Ciri. 

"I have an idea!" Jaskier exclaimed from the passenger's seat of the car they'd retreated to as refuge for their brainstorming. 

"Oh?" Yennefer asked, eyebrow raised and arms crossed. "Your two brain cells rubbed together finally?" He grimaced; he made one joke about only having two brain cells, and now even a year later Yen has still refused to regard it as anything short of fact. 

“I resent that,” he grumbled, raising a finger. “But! The father-daughter dance.” 

“The father-daughter dance… that you’re taking her to… because Geralt has work?” she asked slowly, as if she perhaps wasn’t quite comprehending him right. He bobbed his head. 

“I’ll just tell him I have a marching band thing, then Geralt will have to take her,” he persisted, kicking his feet up to rest on the console. 

“He’s going to be pissed if one of our jobs comes before him one more time.” His face fell; she wasn’t wrong. Geralt had already been more insecure than usual over his employment; if his or Yennefer’s work had to come before his one more time it would only worsen the situation they were trying to fix in the first place.

“Well, that’s all I got.” He shrugged, dropping his head against the window. She pursed her lips, eyes cast to the side in thought. 

“Wait - it  _ could  _ work. Just don’t mention work; tell him you’re sick or something.” He perked up again, grin crossing his lips. He’d been looking forward to this dance, sure, but there would be another one in the spring. And besides, surprising the two of them with a dog was even better than any dance. 

"You sure you don't need me to stay home?" Geralt asked, crouching next to the bed. Jaskier nodded emphatically, giving what he was certain was an Oscar-worthy performance.

"I'll be okay, Yen is here." He coughed lightly into his fist for effect, tugging the blanket tighter around himself. "Besides, Ciri's let down enough as it is." Geralt hummed, reaching out a hand to rest against Jaskier's forehead.

"Well, at least you're not too warm," he commented, fussing with the blankets. 

"Maybe I'll be over whatever it is by tomorrow." Geralt placed a soft kiss on his cheek before rising to his feet. "Go on, your date is waiting for you." 

"Feel better, Jask," he called over his shoulder on the way out. Jaskier let his eyes slip closed, grinning into the covers and waiting for the all-clear from Yennefer. Little did Geralt know he felt  _ great.  _

“Coast is clear.” He leapt out from under the covers when Yennefer appeared by the side of the bed and switched the light on. Geralt and Ciri were off to the dance, and that meant the shelter volunteer would be there any minute. He was nearly vibrating with anticipation. 

The visit went well, with the volunteer remarking that their home (child included) was perfect for the dog’s energy level. With the home visit out of the way and paperwork signed, there was only one step left - actually pick up the dog.

They brought her home on a Sunday afternoon in early December. Geralt had taken Ciri to the mall for a new pair of hiking shoes, and Jaskier and Yennefer snuck off to the shelter to retrieve their new four-legged family member. 

“What if he hates us?” Jaskier asked doubtfully from the driver’s seat of his Prius (there was no way in hell Yennefer was letting a dog in her well-kept car). Geralt’s pickup was back in the driveway, and suddenly the nerves were setting in. “Like, what if he’s allergic or something.”

“He had a dog growing up,” Yennefer tried to soothe him, reaching out and taking his hand in her own. “I know he has a soft spot for animals. It’s just a shame we couldn’t get him a horse.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” he breathed. “You should lobby to change the city ordinance against horses.” She laughed, playfully slapping at his arm.

“Just shut up so we can get inside already, it’s freezing.” He nodded, hopping out of the car and slipping to the backseat so he could retrieve the dog.

The first to catch sight of her when she bounded through the front door - tugging Jaskier along with her - was Ciri, who let out a squeal and flung herself at the dog.

“Daddy!” she hollered, burying her face into the dog’s fur. The dog nuzzled her back, sniffing at her, and Jaskier and Yennefer shared a pleased smile.

“What?” Geralt called, shuffling in from the kitchen, can of coke in his hand. He froze in place, eyes wide. “Is that… is that a dog?” His mouth hung open for a moment before twisting into a grin.

“Merry early Christmas,” Jaskier declared, sneaking a high-five with Yennefer behind his back. Geralt knelt next to Ciri, wrapping one arm around her and running the other through the dog’s fur. 

“Does he have a name?” He asked, peeking up. Yennefer shook her head.

“No,  _ she  _ doesn’t. We thought we’d let you and Ciri decide,” she explained, and Geralt hummed.

“Okay. Where did she come from?” 

“The shelter.” Jaskier squatted next to him, pressing a kiss on his cheek. “This is home number four for her, the poor girl.” 

“Any name ideas?” Yennefer asked.

“I’ll have to think about that.” And he did, taking the whole night. They called her “doggo” in the meantime, and Yennefer was starting to worry that it would actually end up her name. 

“I’ve got it,” Geralt declared over dinner between mouthfuls of spaghetti. “Roach.”

“Excuse me?” Jaskier asked, snorting with laughter. 

“You said she’s had a bunch of homes, and she’s still kicking. She’s stubborn, like a cockroach. So are we.” Jaskier gaped for a moment, fork stilling in his hand, before collecting himself.

“Oh.” He took a careful sip of his soda. “I like it.” Yennefer scowled at him, and he kicked her shin under the table. “What do you think, Ciri?”

“I think it’s funny,” she replied, grinning ear-to-ear.  “Alright.” He clapped his hands together. “Roach it is.” Their blundering doofus of a dog was named  _ Roach.  _ And that was okay, Jaskier thought. Because Geralt was happy, and Ciri was happy, and for the first night in a while they talked and laughed and didn’t spare work a second thought. Jaskier was going to tackle marching band like he did everything else, Yennefer was going to win this reelection, and Geralt was going to find fulfillment whether it was at the bar or elsewhere. And they’d be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was cute and fluffy, but please be responsible and don't adopt a dog unless you know you and your family can care for it. Too many dogs are returned to shelters in the months following Christmas.
> 
> Up next is Christmas 2019, or The One Where Yennefer Saves Breakfast (and Christmas). It's a classic Christmas sickfic; Jaskier gets sick on Christmas morning, jeopardizing their holiday traditions, but it's okay because Yennefer _definitely_ knows what she's doing. 
> 
> [Come say hi on Tumblr!](https://brasskier.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I set this vaguely in America. I'm cranking these out between the gaps in my brutal holiday retail schedule, so I'll be honest I just don't have the time or energy to research enough to set it in the UK. Sorry :(. I picked Vermont for Kaer Morhen bc it's snowy and mountainy up there, and NJ for Lettenhove because idk it just gives me small town South Jersey vibes.
> 
> There will be six installments, covering Christmas 2016-2020, plus I threw in a bonus year-in-review retrospective of Jaskier trying to learn how to celebrate Jewish holidays with Ciri. 
> 
> [Come say hi on Tumblr :)](https://brasskier.tumblr.com/)


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